


The Devil's Favor

by Writer_of_Words88



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1066, Angry Aziraphale (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle, Challenges, Complete, Deception, Demons, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, England (Country), Kings & Queens, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-13 10:23:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20580968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writer_of_Words88/pseuds/Writer_of_Words88
Summary: When the Dark Council serves up a fun challenge to the spawns of Hell, Crowley finds himself caught up in something much more than he can handle. Dagon and a group of demons approach him offering a better chance at rewards versus fighting for it alone. If they succeed, they will gain the favor of the Devil himself.  And just to make matters worse, Crowley learns the challenge may include a certain former Guardian of the Eastern Gate.  But, can he protect the angel and still stay out of Hell's bad book?





	1. The Hellish Proposition

**Author's Note:**

> Good Omens FanFic Timeline:  
Pre-Canon:  
The Pharaoh’s Son – Egypt 14th Century BC  
An Angel in the Brothel – Pompeii 62 AD  
A Long Way from a Miracle – Italy 217 AD  
Christmas Special: The Church of Saint Crowley – Turkey 300 AD  
The Devil’s Favor – England 1066 AD  
War Times – England 1941 AD
> 
> Post-Canon:  
The Bachelor Party – 2019 AD
> 
> Separate GO AU FanFic:  
Halloween Special: Sleepy Hollow (Human AU)  
Ineffable Prompts  
Instagram Prompt

**Normandy, 1066 AD**

The scent of brimstone and sulfur speckled the air, and for once, it didn’t come from Crowley. He straightened in his chair, for nearly the first time in his life, then tasted the air. His tongue flicked out, reading the particles that swirled around him. It was close, but that didn’t narrow down its source. The dining hall held at least three dozen humans, each snatching handfuls of bread and meat from the row of tables that stretched down the center of the room. 

Servants bustled in and out of the opening leading to the kitchen. More than half of the staff had passed by his chair within the last ten minutes alone. The demon hissed unable to pinpoint the source of the stench. None of the other patrons commented on the smell. It was a bare hint against the onslaught of meat, dripping with sizzling juice, and wine that sloshed over the rims of goblets. The humans had even been too preoccupied to notice Crowley checking the air with his tongue. Yet, someone, or someones, had seen his gesture, not that they counted as human.

His golden eyes narrowed as a half dozen figures stalked up behind the row of chairs toward him. Crowley returned to slouching in his chair. He couldn’t risk appearing nervous, despite the fact that every single person strolling up to him now was, in fact, a demon. 

Over the millennia, Crowley had run into the occasional one or two for a brief time, usually to give a message or a commendation, but this, this horde of demons, couldn’t be anything but trouble. And, he recognized every single one of them. 

“Dagon. Surprised to see you away from your nest of paperwork.”

The demon gave Crowley a full, pointed sneer. “I’ve taken on a new pet project. See, the lords of Hell, announced a fun new challenge yesterday, and I intend to win it.” 

Crowley forced a return smile and glanced at the others in the group: Hastur, Ligur, and a few others he’d met once or twice: Kilgur, Bludgur, and Festur. 

Each of them held wicked smiles that would’ve been at home on a gigantic starved shark. One that had just found a group of drowning humans in the middle of the sea. 

“Must be good to bring you lot out of the dirt. Lemme guess, promotions, favors, big muck-covered office with your own squeaky chair to wheel around in?”

Hastur blinked his black eyes in response. “What’s an office?”

Dagon circled to the other side of his chair in a slow prowling fashion. Her eyes never left Crowley. “Well, yes, a promotion. But, it’s the _favor_ I want, the most sought-after favor in Hell, only a rumor, till now.” The demon leaned down, hissing in his ear. “A favor…from our lord Satan himself.”

Crowley flinched away from her. He had to will his heart back into a normal rhythm as he stared. “You-you can’t mean? Come on; they can’t be serious. He’s never agreed to that before. If that were the case, then every demon in the pits would be up in arms over it.” Even as he spoke, his blood froze down his veins. Demons would indeed even dare the gates of Heaven for a chance at that. But, they _had_ to be joking. 

Dagon didn’t answer him, just stood and ambled back to the group. “You’re welcome to join us. We know our odds are better this way but don’t be stupid, I get to be the one to ask our Lord for the favor. However, I will reward those who help me with the challenge.” The demon paused, eyeing his disbelieving expression. “Did I mention it came from the Dark Council?”

“The Dark Council?” Crowley almost choked on the words. “This big challenge thingy came directly from the Dark Council?”

“Not something any demon would dare to lie about, now would they. What do you think, Crowley? Care to join our forces of darkness?” 

He could almost see the scales shimmer across Dagon’s face beneath the skin. Whatever it was would be outrageous and possibly impossible. Probably impossible. He’d be completely and utterly insane to even attempt whatever they had planned. Discorporation would be almost guaranteed. However, for some reason, a soft angelic face popped into his mind. He didn’t understand why, then he blinked, realizing that a favor could come in handy should anything ever happen to a certain Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Not that Crowley would ever let anything happen to him, but to have something in place just in case.

“What exactly is this challenge that will most certainly involve massive amounts of death and destruction?”

Dagon gave him something close to a beaming smile, but it hinged closer to an eel showing its teeth to its next meal. “Oh, don’t worry, Crowley. I know it’ll be something you’ve wanted since you came to the surface.”

“Which is?”

The whole group stood grinning and made Crowley want to slither under the table if they kept it up much longer. 

Dagon continued, “It’s the biggest achievement for any demon really. Just the death of a certain angel. One that has been here as long as you have, Serpent.”

Crowley froze in place as his heart had completely stopped in his chest. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t.

“Help us, Crowley. Help us destroy, Aziraphale.”


	2. Across the Channel

Crowley paced around the large sitting room. His hands shifted, fidgeting with his belt, and adjusted it at his waist. Its dark crimson hue resembled the nearby flowers dotting the castle grounds. The belt held his black linen tunic in place, despite Crowley’s sudden jerks to pace back the way he’d come. The fabric swirled out behind him like the billowing cloak of Death, and his piercing stare didn’t deter the looming sense of destruction that surrounded him. He shoved his long red strands from his eyes. He had to think, had to plan.

“Nervous?” Hastur asked with a self-satisfying sneer. 

He and Ligur sat at a small wooden table at the corner of the room. Their tunics matched more with the humans with earthy shades of browns and greens. A plump toad hopped on the table between them, chasing the occasional fly that dared buzz into the room.

Crowley narrowed his eyes at them from behind his dark spectacles. “Nervous? Why the hell would I be nervous?”

Ligur glanced at Hastur, and they shared a knowing chuckle. “Well, we both know how long you’ve been up here, eh? And, I bet it’s going to be a riot when Dagon takes out the angel you’ve been fighting against since the Garden. And, it’ll all be over in _less_ than a year. Not thousands of failed attempts, but just one success, that’s all it will take. So, as I see it, no matter who wins, Crowley, in the end, it’s _you_ who loses. The Dark Council won’t be too happy with you no matter who takes out the bloody ball of light.”

Crowley swallowed hard as though the truth in those words had stuck in his throat. He had thought of that already, and many other staggering certainties, like the fact that nearly every demon in Hell was after Aziraphale, and if Crowley didn’t join them in the hunt, then some very suspicious questions would crop up about their last few eons together. 

Aziraphale was the clever one if he was being honest; however, if Crowley didn’t think of something fast, he’d never even get a chance to warn the adorable angel. He bared his fangs at the demons. “Nervous? About that? Are you stupid? You really think it’ll be that easy to kill him if _I_ haven’t been able to do it in the last five thousand years? I can’t wait till all of you bastards get discorporated for being bloody morons. I’m the only one who knows how to avoid getting blasted away by him, so _I’ll_ get the favor in the end. You should try worrying about yourselves instead.”

Dagon strode into the room from the hallway. The demon’s silver tunic glittered in the beams of sunlight. The inky-black belt at Dagon’s hips swirled out like dark seaweed ready to pull unsuspecting swimmers to the depths below. “Don’t get too excited, Serpent. I’ve been counting on your cooperation from the beginning regarding the angel. I always knew you’d keep that information close, but the time for secrets is over.”

Crowley gulped, trying to keep from appearing anymore nervous.

“We have less than a year until the attack, so for the next few weeks, you will need to cover the last five thousand years of the angel’s antics. The sooner we know his strategy, the sooner we can use these pathetic humans to our advantage.”

Crowley shivered as his skin seemed to chill by degrees. “All of his antics? In a month? I don’t think that’s possible.”

Dagon gave him a sharp smile. “Better get started then, snake.”

Crowley paled, realizing his mistake. He had been bloody stupid, so unbelievably stupid. Half of him was tempted to discorporate on the spot, but if he did that. He sighed at the circular pattern to his logic. It was the single point that kept coming up over and over again. If he didn’t work with them, then he would never know what they were planning. He had to keep Aziraphale close, but his enemies closer. 

It was still true that he couldn’t go against Hell’s plans, but he had never been a fantastic demon when those plans involved Aziraphale anyway. “Fine.” He glanced at Hastur. “Call the others in. I’ll start from the beginning, from the Garden.” 

** Meanwhile, in England: **

Aziraphale hurried to catch up. He shuffled down the long hall covered with golden tapestries and ornate lamps. His white cloak billowed out behind like great glittering wings. He had wanted to stay behind and try a few of the delectable fruit pastries, but his King had called for him. The angel eased up beside the man striding down the hall with a blazing purpose that emanated from his stern gaze. 

The King glanced at Aziraphale. “Are you sure this information is accurate?”

“I am quite sure your Highness. We have received a number of reports regarding Sir William of Normandy. They are most definitely preparing to invade soon, within a year, at a guess. Might I suggest sending some of your men south to prepare for their advance?”

The King continued striding forward, pushing open the massive wooden door to his war room. The chamber had been covered in charts and maps, where a dozen or so other men stood, scanning through letters and messages from couriers. 

A soldier near the door shouted as they entered the room, “All hail his Highness, Harold, King of the English.” 

His men turned, giving him their full attention and bowed at his arrival. Aziraphale also bowed, then adjusted his long white tunic stitched with golden threads. The King had commented on his priest-like appearance but had never asked him to change, which the angel had been grateful. Aziraphale paused as a familiar, and yet, foreign scent lingered in the air. He straightened, doing his best to remain at the King’s side while he scanned the room. 

A hint of brimstone and sulfur lingered in the air. It would’ve been imperceptible to the humans, but in the many years he’d known Crowley, he’d picked up the talent for sensing it even among a crowd, despite even cooking fires or torches. The amount of smoke made no difference. It was as though his senses had attuned themselves to seeking it out. He could always find the demon, which made his heart swell when their paths happen to cross. However, this was different. 

The hint of hellish smoke was not Crowley, but someone else. A new demon.

Aziraphale glanced around at the generals and other soldiers. Something shifted in the air, as though the currents of the world had changed. It didn’t send him any pleasant feelings, just the opposite. However, the angel had kept his body in good health for the last five thousand years, so he’d had at least had some practice dealing with demons. Granted, most of them had been too scared to stick around when they realized it was him. 

“Sir Aziraphale.”

The angel snapped from his thoughts and hurried to the King’s side. “Yes, your Highness?”

King Harold stared at him as though assessing his mind. “You rarely have your thoughts elsewhere during these matters. Do the Normandy forces have you that worried?”

Aziraphale gave a quick nod, unsure of what to say. It’s not like he could tell the man that he feared one of the King’s new adversaries had implored demonic services to spy on him, or that as an angel, he would do his best to protect him from such influences. However, what really bothered him the most, when he thought about it, was the lack of hellish influence from a much more familiar demon. One that he hadn’t spoken to for years now. It made him worry, more than usual. Despite that, he knew Crowley had become used to tough situations. He could talk his way into and out of most trouble. But, he couldn’t help but fret that Hell had recalled him for some reason.

There was a chance he could get a message to him, or better yet, he could volunteer as an ambassador to speak with William directly, and perhaps search for Crowley along the way. However, that put him an uncomfortable distance away from the King, which made his next course of action much more obvious. 

“Your Highness,” Aziraphale stepped forward. 

King Harold turned from his discussion with one of his generals. “Yes?”

“I’m afraid I feel I must retire for a short while. May I be excused to my rooms for a quick rest?”

The King eyed him with a narrowed concern. His hand clasped the angel’s shoulder. “Aziraphale, I regret asking so much of you since the coronation. I worry that I have been working you and the rest of my men with regrettable force. Please rest and dine with me this evening if your stature has recovered by then.”

Aziraphale bowed with a gracious smile. “Of course, your Highness. Your kindness is much appreciated. I am happy to serve you, my King.” 

He stepped toward the door when Harold returned to his conversation with the general. Aziraphale glanced at the few others in the room. He tried meeting their eyes even though most would not look up from their charts. If he could get a good look, it would be easier to see if they were human; eyes were the windows to the soul and all. 

The angel left the room and closed the door behind him, now starting to worry that the demons were, in fact, after the King. He paced down the hall, calculating the next likely course of action when the door behind opened once more. 

“Sir Aziraphale. Our King has asked me to escort you to your room, in case you feel faint.” It was one of the younger, less experienced soldiers. One that they trusted to run messages on occasion to the armies in the north. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to decline the offer, then met the young man’s eyes. He paused for the briefest of moments, then rubbed at his temple. “Oh, thank you, dear boy. I do appreciate your help. I don’t know what has come over me. My head just feels stuffed full of wool today.” 

“Of course, Sir. Lead the way.” The young man smiled, and Aziraphale turned to shuffle down the hall.

So, he thought, it _wasn’t _just the King they were after. 

The angel glanced back, meeting the dead-black eyes once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chapters coming soon! Will update every few days until complete.


	3. Prayer and Faith

**Normandy**

Crowley kicked the wine bottle, sending it smashing into the stone wall. Glass erupted out and littered the floor. Bits of it clinked and echoed against the multitude of bottles strewn about his room. The demon hissed, glaring at the chaos at his feet. 

He hadn’t ever let his quarters get so cluttered since humans had first invented solid housing structures. He loathed the grimy sense of dust on his heels. Just because he was a snake didn’t mean he had to slither through the dirt anymore, unless he wanted to, of course. 

“Three months,” he snarled to the empty room.

Three months had passed since the start of Dagon’s little scheme. And, not one letter, not one word, not one hint from Aziraphale. Though, he supposed, Hell would be flooded with the news if one of the demons had succeeded. Crowley stumbled as a shiver snaked down his spine. Even the mere thought of some demon completing the challenge seemed to bring him to his knees. He ran both hands through his hair, attempting to smooth out the frazzled ends and detangle the knots. 

Crowley breathed out and tried to blink the bleariness from his eyes. He had to focus. 

A plan, he needed a plan, any plan; preferably a good one. 

He let out a ragged breath again, trying to relax. No news was good news from Hell. Any demon would go around gloating the moment it happened. Would it happen? 

Aziraphale _was_ an angel, but an angel who’d given away his flaming sword. But, he _could _smite demons, as long as they didn’t bring him delicious treats and promise to be nice. And, _any_ angel had Heaven’s protection, so surely he wouldn’t go around, inviting demons up for a quick drink and discuss their life choices or anything. Crowley crumpled forward, groaning as his head rested on the cold stone floor. 

He flicked away a piece of glass near his face. Then, Crowley swallowed down his bitter realization. There was one thing he could do. It would be risky, far riskier than jumping on a ship to England and hoping no one would notice, but the risk would be all on him instead of shared with his tartlet-loving angel. He was pretty sure he was about to get struck by lightning. But for the angel, for Aziraphale, he would risk it.

Crowley pulled himself up from the floor. He stumbled over to the bed and knelt by its side. His skin itched as if the thought of it could make him discorporate. He hissed out a heavy sigh and clapped his hands together. 

The demon closed his eyes. “Okay, um, God. Look, I know I’ve never done this since before, since well,” he made a downward jerk with his head, “so if you’re going to smite me or whatever get it over with please, but if you could, just please hear me out first.” He peeked open one glittering golden eye. 

Nothing happened. No pillars of light destroyed him, no bolt of lightning charred his body, not even a light breeze fluttered through the room. So again, no news was good news, he hoped. 

“Okay, God. I’ll just get it over with. Aziraphale, the Principality, he’s going to be attacked, well I mean, he’s probably already been attacked, but it’s got to stop. It won’t stop, not until,” he hesitated. The words threatened to choke in his throat. “Just, please. Don’t let, don’t let anything happen to him. He’s been here for five thousand years. He’s been your shining ball of love every single day. He’s…he’s the most perfect angel I know.” His lip trembled as he continued speaking, “I know…I know a demon’s fate, but that shouldn’t be Aziraphale’s. He shouldn’t…I mean, really, it shouldn’t be his. Look, I know what this sounds like, and I still have faith in…well, if we’re being honest here, I have faith in…” Crowley paused. He was going to say that he had faith in Aziraphale, but that’s not how it sounded. 

He chewed on his lip. In fact, it more sounded like he’d lost his faith in the eons old angel. Did he? Did Crowley think the angel really was all tartlets and tea and soft smiles? 

He jumped to his feet. “On second thought, God, scratch all that. I’ll get back to you later, maybe. Thanks for not smiting me, yet.” 

Crowley spun facing his disaster of a room, then glanced down and eyed his wine-stained clothes. “What the hell is that,” he snarled, and the stain shimmered away, too frightened to stick around. The demon rolled his shoulders and picked up his dark glasses from the floor. He ran his hands over his hair, smoothing out the frayed tangles that had gathered over the months. Crowley set his jaw. “Right, that’s better, but not done, yet.” 

He snapped his fingers, dissipating every trace of the horde of wine bottles, dust, and clutter from the room. The walls shown white in the afternoon light, and even his disheveled sheets returned to their proper place on the bed. “Much better.” 

His face resumed its arrogant sneer as he sauntered for the door. Those fuckers would realize why Aziraphale was still on Earth. A few bloody demons might be a bit of a workout, but nothing the Guardian of the Eastern Gate couldn’t handle. He opened the door.

Hastur stood leaning against the frame. His arms were folded, and he had a smug smile plastered across his lips. “What do you think you’re doing, Crowley?”

He paused at the door but kept his own self-satisfied sneer in place. Perhaps, he should’ve finished the prayer after all. “Hey, Hastur. I was thinking of taking a little stroll around the castle. You know how I enjoy my afternoon strolls, so full of sinful tempting to bring about and all—”

“Shut up. I heard you.” Hastur shifted his body, blocking the way from the room. “I heard you, Crowley. I heard what sounded like,” and the darkness consumed his eyes. “It sounded like praying. So, I’ll ask you again. What do you think you’re doing?”

Crowley had a fraction of a second to come up with a plausible answer before Hastur did one of two things: he’d either attempt to rip out Crowley’s tongue, or set him on fire, or both, and then he’d tell Dagon what had happened. Okay, so it was more than two, but no matter what, it would end badly, unless his next few words were very, very convincing. 

So, Crowley laughed, which was always a good way to throw someone off. “You what? You thought I was praying. Where the hell have you been, you stupid bugger? I was sending a memo to the Dark Council. You heard that last millennia I was asked to start reporting to them directly, right?” He searched the demon’s face before continuing, and sure enough, a tiny spark of doubt had blossomed. Gotcha. “I mean, you really shouldn’t have overheard that, demons can get into a lot of trouble for knowing how to talk to the Dark Council without a proper invite. Look, since we’ve known each other for so long, I won’t tell them, right? But, hey,” Crowley then pointed at Hastur, then back at himself. “You owe me, alright?”

He snaked his way by, and Hastur blinked, then stammered, “Right, yeah. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t hear nothing.”

Crowley glanced back at him with a small nod, then watched as the slimy demon scurried off to Ligur’s room. He pursed his lips. That seemed odd. 

“Finally slither out from your nest, Serpent?” Dagon gave him a dark chuckle and strode into the room. 

Crowley glanced back at Ligur’s room, still puzzled. “Are Hastur and Ligur sharing a room? I thought we all had our own rooms. Guess someone like me does deserve their own space.” He puffed out his chest a little as he strolled to the table. 

Dagon followed behind him. “Oh, there is plenty of rooms. But, I suppose you have been on Earth for a while. They have a shared room because it’s what they wanted, and besides Hastur’s old room will get used as soon as the rest of our forces arrive.”

Crowley glanced from her and back to the door. He sat in one of the chairs as his mind processed the possibility of her words. Sure as hell wasn’t love, probably. He didn’t know for a fact, but the idea still made him shiver. He did not want to think about Hastur or Ligur or whatever they were doing. Yet, if they knew how long he’d been pining over a particular angel, he’d undoubtedly get the same response. He propped his feet on the table in an attempt to find a comfortable lounging position. It wasn’t working.

“You know,” Dagon purred and sat down beside him. “It’s not uncommon for demons to share a night or two together. If you are lonely, I’m sure we could think of something to preoccupy you.”

Crowley bolted out of the chair. He strode over and leaned against the wall in a horrible attempt to play off the uncomfortableness of the seat. “Oh, yeah. I heard something about that, but really I’m good. No need for, uh, preoccupying here.”

Dagon stood and paced in a slow stride around the table. “Too bad. However, I’d be careful if I were you, snake. If you keep turning down good offers, some might think that you prefer, oh maybe, blue-eyed blonds with…sweet, _angelic_ faces.”


	4. Demons at the Door

**England**

Aziraphale peeked his head around the corner. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the shadowed hall. Lamps flickered in the evening light, casting clawed shadows from every nook and corner. 

The hallway appeared clear, though that hadn’t stopped them before. He bit his lip and tried to sense for any lingering hint of a demonic presence. The last three months had been hell for the angel. Before then, he could count on one hand how many demons he had encountered since he’d left the garden and that number included Crowley. 

He slipped down the hall with the entrance to his bedroom insight. Aziraphale still wore his flowing white tunic and gold-edged cloak; however, his daily ensemble now included a long steel sword tied to his waist. The handle gleamed under the lamplight as shadows swirled around the corridor. 

With one hand locked around the hilt, Aziraphale flew open the door. His eyes darted across every surface of the room. Nothing stirred. 

The angel relaxed his grip and closed the door behind him. With a flick of his wrist, he activated the wards surrounding his room. In addition to influencing King Harold, Aziraphale had spent the last few months researching ways to block demonic influence from entering a space. The spells had been simple enough, even if it had required him to learn a few demon runes along the process. However, keeping the wards active for more than a few days had started building a sense of wariness in the angel. 

After the first attack, Aziraphale realized the importance of keeping a safe space that demons couldn’t enter, unless invited, but he didn’t expect to invite any of them into his bedchamber, save for one. 

Discorportaing the lowly hell spawn had left a large amount of ash covering his belongings and had left the understanding that Aziraphale needed a few more tools in his arsenal in case that sort of thing happened again, which it had. 

Within the last two weeks, it had happened five times thus far. He sighed and collapsed onto the lounge near the arched window. What had happened? What had changed that had demons knocking at his door almost literally?

Aziraphale set his jaw and stood, facing the center of the room. A circular rug had been placed there as soon as he accepted his residence. It appeared plain to most with only white and light brown patterns that swirled throughout the simple weave; however, the angel bent down and pulled at the rug, flipping it over. The other side still contained the white wool but had been laced with black lines of yarn to create an intricate circle of power. Sigils, runes, and interwoven lines meshed to create what equated to an instant postal service between himself and Heaven. It came in handy for those times he needed to speak to them immediately, and now was one of those times. 

He grabbed his collection of candles from the shelves, tables, and hanging lamps throughout the room and placed them around the circle. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be Heaven. Well, his first instinct was to ask Crowley, yet something nudged him away from that train of thought. It wasn’t that he thought the demon had betrayed him, but if other demons were involved, as they obviously were, then going to Crowley could get him into hot water so to speak. 

Aziraphale knelt at the edge of the circle and clasped his hands together. He closed his eyes and sensed a shiver of warmth as he began to pray. “Oh, hello. This is the Principality, Aziraphale, calling. I have a dreadfully important matter that requires attention. There is something terribly wrong here on Earth.” He waited. 

After a few heartbeats, soft pale light cascaded down from the ceiling and poured onto the circle. Tiny luminescent spheres danced around the room, and then two beings shimmered into view across the circle from Aziraphale. He recognized them.

“Gabriel, Michael. This is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t think anyone would be coming in person.”

The angels glanced around the room. Gabriel squinted his pale lavender eyes at the large bed against the wall. “Why do you keep this fluffy monstrosity in your place of sanctuary?”

“It’s a bed. It’s comfy, and I enjoy relaxing on it after, oh I don’t know, having to battle a demon,” Aziraphale huffed, walking around the circle to join them. 

Michael raised a slender brow. “Do you mean the demon, Crowley?”

Aziraphale tensed. Under normal circumstances, he would have been worried that Michael would think of Crowley first, yet given his last few months, he could easily tell the truth of the matter. “No. I am unsure of his whereabouts at present. But, it seems that many other demons do _not_ have the problem of avoiding my detection.”

Gabriel scoffed and shared a chuckle with Michael. “Come now. You can’t seriously mean a few dirt crawlers are giving you trouble.”

“Actually,” Aziraphale snipped, “The current number within the last three months is around two dozen.” He tried to keep his polite smile plastered on his face, but Gabriel was making that a difficult feat. The last thing he wanted was to upset the angels; however, he found himself growing rather impatient with their flippant nonchalance of the chaos that was now his life. 

Gabriel and Michael snapped their gaze to him. Their brows rose to a satisfying degree to Aziraphale’s delight. 

Michael gave him a worried look. “That number does appear higher than normal.” The angel glanced at Gabriel. 

“Indeed. Well, the good news is that I have heard of a little rumor floating around. Seems as though it held some truth after all.”

Aziraphale felt his mouth fall open. “A rumor? About the demons? Does that mean you’ve known what has been happening this whole time?” He almost trembled where he stood. If it weren’t two angels standing in front of him, telling him this information, he would’ve been rather cross. 

“Yeah,” Gabriel shrugged. “It didn’t seem likely, but I guess Hell decided to stir things up a bit. They’ve got a bit of a challenge or bet going on down there. If one of the Fallen manages to take you out, then they get some sort of favor or something. I don’t know the details per se, but it seems like they really want it, whatever it is.”

Aziraphale felt his knees weaken. He leaned against the wall for support. His breathing escaped his lips in tiny gasps. “So, um, Gabriel. If I may so that I understand, all of Hell, the entire…thing, has a bet going on about who can…discorporate me first?”

Gabriel beamed a sunny smile at him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Yeah, sounds like you’ve got the idea.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Aziraphale almost spat the words from his mouth.

“Hey, I figured, it’d help you get some of those abs back.” He poked Aziraphale stomach. “Can’t have our star Principality getting soft on us, now can we?”

Aziraphale felt his legs give way, and he slumped to the floor. He stared at the ground, trying to comprehend the vast odds in favor of tearing him from his body if every demon in Hell was after him. Or, _was_ every demon after him? He decided to risk it. “What about Crowley? Is he, um, in on the bet as well?”

Gabriel scoffed as though he’d stated the obvious. “Of course, he is. He’s apart of Hell, right? And let’s face it, he’s got the most to lose out of that lot. Seriously, if he couldn’t take you out in five thousand years, then some lowly demon does the job, he’ll burn in those pits for eons or something. I don’t know the details, but I’m sure Hell has a way of dealing with incompetent demons. Lucky for us, am I right?” He held a hand up at Michael, who stared at it before lifting a hand in response. He slapped it and laughed. “Oh, wow. Well, all we can do now is wait and see what happens. Best of luck to you and, you know, get that tummy in shape or else.” He laughed again, then disappeared in a faint cloud of white smoke. 

Aziraphale continued to sit on the ground. His mind reeled, unable to comprehend what had happened. 

Michael leaned down and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know this might seem like a lot, Aziraphale. And, while we cannot help much, I can tell you that,” Michael hesitated, then met his eyes. “The demon, Crowley, has been in contact with a large group of demons. It seems they plan to invade this area and use the war to allow for a great number of them to attack you at once. It may be wise to influence your own human army in retaliation. I don’t know if you will have enough time, but for the sake of Heaven, I wish you the best of luck in this endeavor.” Michael gave him a small smile before vanishing. 

Aziraphale continued to sit, leaning against the wall. He sat in cold silence, resting against the wall and thinking until the candles flickered out one by one. He licked his lips, feeling their rough edges. 

If Michael’s information was accurate, and he had no reason to suspect otherwise, then Crowley–he shivered–he had known about the call against his life from the beginning, but why hadn’t he warned him?

Aziraphale remembered what Gabriel had said then. Crowley had so much at stake. The stupid demon challenge was going to tear them apart with the force of a cratering earthquake if he didn’t think of something. And, the only way, he hesitated at the realization. The only way Crowley could escape punishment, or at least receive the least amount of discipline, was if Aziraphale did _not_ discorporate, at all; against Hell and any demon that crawled up from it. If he could survive, then they might understand why a single demon had failed at such an attempt for so long. 

That also meant that if any demon, or angel for that matter, caught them in communication, then they would know _how_ both had managed to stay on Earth for so long. Aziraphale held his hand to his chest. Crowley must have been quite distraught with worry for him. Perhaps, Gabriel had been right in a way, not about his figure of course, but he had to take this matter much more seriously if he wanted them to come out in one piece. He hesitated as another idea came to mind. 

In order to save Crowley, it was possible he would find himself facing off against him. He would have to send Crowley back to Hell to save him. But, he would have to be the last one, the last remaining demon. Aziraphale didn’t think he could land the final blow against him, but perhaps he had another option. 

The angel swallowed down any remaining dread lodged in his throat and stood. He had to speak to the king, damned the hour, it had to be right then. 

He had to be ready for Crowley’s sake. 


	5. Heaven's Fury

**Hastings, England**

The group—well, that wasn’t really the right word, Crowley thought. Maybe more troupe, horde, gaggle? He liked gaggle. It made him chuckle—the gaggle of demons rode up the ridge, near the edge of town and closer to the edge of their goal. Crowley flicked out his tongue, tasting the air. His stomach twisted, writhing in his gut. It seemed as though his snake form had wound in on itself inside of him, ready to burst free and seek out the familiar source of celestial heat that shimmered throughout the hill-covered region. 

It was as if the Principality had strolled over the land, seeding the very soil in holy light. He had never been so glad to be on top of a horse before in his life. However, the remaining angelic presence over the area gave him the feeling that Aziraphale had been scouting for them, and recently by the intensity. It made his own demonic influence want to slink away from the sensation, well it would’ve, but over the eons, his body seemed to react just the opposite to what it should when in contact with that irresistible presence. 

It was a brilliant defense, Crowley reasoned. One that would surely make any demon think twice before sneaking up on the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, but there they were, and that’s precisely what they were doing. Dagon had found a way to gather a large chunk of the strongest forces into a gaggle of about three dozen and earn them the title of scouting party. No human would be a match for them, and the angel and the king, wouldn’t be expecting the army for another day or two. 

Hastur rode up next to him, snarling curses under his breath at his steed. “Are you ready for your part in the plan? Not going to turn tail and run, are you?”

Crowley glared at him from behind his iron helm. “Of course, I’m not running away.” And, he meant it that time. There was no way in Heaven or Hell he was leaving his angel to fight these spawns of Hell alone. He just hoped that once the dust settled, Aziraphale would forgive him. In the many months leading up to the little expedition across the channel, Crowley hadn’t come up with a single way to save him without it being glaringly obvious that he was turning traitor, not toward Heaven, of course, but for Aziraphale. His heart thudded against his ribcage, already clearly aware of the depths the demon would go for his blond-headed angel. “This _will_ end today.” One way or another, he thought. 

“Good,” Hastur said with something between an eager and disgusted sneer. “Try not to cower too much once we get there. But,” he said with a sinister expression. “Once we take out the angel, it’s all over for you, remember?”

“Unless I take him out first,” Crowley snapped, feeling much more agitated than before. “And, if you keep talking, I’m going to shove some of that horse dung down your throat until you shut up.”

Hastur glowered and road ahead, catching up with Ligur and Dagon. 

A hush fell over them as they reached the threshold of the forest. Crowley had to demonically miracle away the contents in his stomach before it exposed itself one way or another, and he didn’t think his horse would appreciate getting vomited on all that much. 

Dagon held up a hand. The demon wore a gleaming silver suit of armor complete with a cascading silver cloak that shimmered like the scales of some enormous sea monster. 

The rest of them, including Crowley, donned a suit of black armor that was far too heavy and cold for his liking. He squinted at the hand gestures Dagon preformed. They were close. Unless by some miracle, they would clash with the angel soon. 

He still had faith in Aziraphale, but that didn’t mean he had to like what was coming any more than normal. In all likelihood, he was about to get discorporated by his angel, which wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but what would follow would probably be unpleasant. Years of torture in the deepest pits for his failures, or worse. Crowley almost prayed right there, and he shivered. He’d been tempted to do that too much lately, and that was _one_ habit he doubted anyone would approve of in any realm, occult or ethereal. 

The undergrowth seemed rather thick in this area, probably a bit of divine intervention to keep those on horseback from sneaking up on an unsuspecting Principality. 

Demons began dismounting from their horses and formed loose ranks. Dagon strolled up next to Crowley with a large spear in one hand. “Our time is finally upon us.” Dagon flashed him a sinister smile. “After five thousand years, your greatest enemy will be gone. I can almost taste the excitement in the air.” 

Crowley couldn’t hide his shudder at the sight of so many demons, all with the intent of annihilating Aziraphale. He knew Dagon had influenced William into invading sooner than he’d planned. However, it hadn’t taken much with the announcement of Harold’s coronation spreading like wildfire, or perhaps Hellfire. 

He glanced at the demon, who stood scowling at him.

“What?” Crowley felt exposed. He had almost developed a twitch in his eye over the last few months. Perhaps, focusing on one particular angel with such intensity was allowing some of that angelic light to seep into his brain.

Dagon turned to face him. The demon bared teeth at him as the words oozed from behind tight lips. “You want him dead, don’t you? Or, are you going to try and back out, you coward?”

“Coward?” Crowley mustered together his best haughty laugh and eye roll he could manage. “Me? I’ve only been facing off against that angel since the Garden, so excuse me if I need a moment to bask in the, uh, demony-demonicness of it all, so let me have my moment.” 

Dagon seemed to relax at his words and left him with a smirk. 

The amount of energy he had to put into looking like he hated Aziraphale was exhausting. If by some miracle he did manage to escape the mayhem, torture, and death that awaited him, he thought a nice nap would be in order. Maybe for at least thirty years or so. 

Dagon trudged ahead, leading them through the trees on an upward slope. Crowley couldn’t help himself, and for the next half hour, as they walked, his mind repeated a silent prayer in his head over and over again.

_Aziraphale, they are coming. Please, angel, if somehow you can hear me, please just smite them back to hell. Don’t try to talk to them, or worry about me, just save yourself. Don’t die on me. Not today. _

The trees parted, revealing a massive clearing near the top of the hill. And, at the center of the mound stood one lone tree ripe with glistening red apples. 

Crowley’s breath caught in his throat. Not only did the scene remind him of a time long since passed. But, next to the swaying apple tree stood a figure clad in gleaming white and gold armor. 

His fur-lined cloak billowed out as though fluttering white wings in the wind. The angel’s face appeared as though chiseled from marble with his stony eyes glowing blue against the fading light of day. Crowley blinked at the full beard decorating his face, giving him a devilishly handsome appearance, yet also one that said he was not there for sipping wine or enjoying cakes. 

He met Aziraphale’s eyes and halted. He had seen eyes like those many times over his time on Earth. They held no joy, no delight as though not even a table covered in the most delicious desserts or wine could bring back their light. They looked wrong on the angel. He didn’t want to know then how many demons Aziraphale had faced, or how many he had faced alone.

Crowley had never hated himself more than at that moment. He should’ve been there. He should’ve run to Aziraphale’s side as soon as he knew what Hell had been planning. 

The angel wordlessly unsheathed a massive sword from his belt and pointed it directly at them.

Realization dawned on the demon, and Crowley knew then what he’d missed, what key factor he had miscalculated in all of his planning.

Aziraphale would count his absence as abandonment. All of his months of silence had meant Crowley had picked Hell over his friend, Hell over his angel.

And Heaven hath no fury like an avenging angel.


	6. The Plan

Electricity crackled in the air as the angel faced down the demons. Aziraphale stood surrounded and alone on the hilltop with nothing but an apple tree by his side. Crowley peeled his eyes away from him long enough to glance at Dagon, who’d glared at him expectantly. He licked his lips, trying to steel his nerves and shift his mind into the role which he’d been preparing for months.

Crowley stalked forward. His armor clanked and rang out into the setting sun, resembling the morning tones from Death’s bell. He paused in front of the demon horde, remaining far from the angel’s blade, but knew he was still close enough for Aziraphale’s wrath. It was something he feared almost more than his possible plunge into the sulfuric pits below.

Crowley cleared his throat, “Angel Aziraphale, Principality, and Guardian of the Eastern Gate. So, uh, the spawns of Hell, under Dagon’s leadership here,” he nodded toward the demon behind him, then glanced back, “are here to claim your head, one way or another. If you, uh, surrender now, then we will guarantee a quick and, mostly painless, body discorporation.” He adjusted his helm, then pulled it off, feeling too annoyed with its lack of visibility. If the angel was going to blow him to bits, then he wanted to bask in his radiant light one last time.

Aziraphale pointed the sword at Crowley. They were still far enough away that they had to shout to hear, but he didn’t doubt that the angel could pierce that sword through his heart within a fraction of a second. He allowed a small smile to play across his lips because, in a way, Crowley felt a colossal weight lift from his shoulders. It was as if the entirety of the world had done its best to crush him since the whole challenge had started, but then, seeing his angel whole, maybe a bit harder around the edges, yet still in one piece, made his months of unyielding anxiety worth the wait.

Crowley wanted to run to him. Plead with him to understand that everything he’d done was for his safety. Anything and everything he was about to do was to protect him, to protect what they had.

He swallowed down a bitter realization. One that had always nestled in the back of his mind that he ignored with a vigilant fervor. But, each and every time their paths crossed, certain words seemed to spring forward, only held back by clamped teeth; they were words that he dared never acknowledge, for the weight of their meaning would be the end of his existence — the end of everything.

Aziraphale, donned in his battle armor, narrowed his eyes in challenge. Each word came out ringing with angelic grace and authority, shaking every bone in Crowley’s body. This, Crowley thought, this is how angels greet their demonic adversaries, so why not me?

“If you foul fiends think you can best me, then I hereby challenge your candid surety with every ounce of my virtue and grace.” His teeth flashed as a clap of thunder echoed out from the gathering clouds above. “And be sure,” he growled low and his angelic authority resonated down through every fiber of Crowley’s being, “should any of you demons decide to raise the stakes with Hellfire,”—lightning flashed overhead—“then, I shall gladly return in kind with a divine storm, washing away all evil from this land.”

Crowley flinched as though to step back. Aziraphale was serious, deadly so. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the unwavering blade in Aziraphale’s hand. All he could do was hope, and perhaps pray that the angel picked up on his act. He decided to shift to phase one.

Crowley raised his sword, pointing it at the angel. “Last warning and all. Give up now, or I shall reveal my secret weapon.” He tried to sound threatening, he really did; he hoped it was enough.

“Foul serpent, spying on me all these years, have you? Well, do your best. I have Heaven’s divine protection against such diabolical schemes.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. He could’ve sworn that the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth had quirked up. Was he having fun? He did seem to love reading about adventure and such. Not to mention, they’d seen a few plays together in Rome, and Aziraphale had always seemed so enthralled with the stage and the actors. Crowley allowed himself to hope that was the case this time as well. “Very well, angel, oh uh, of Heaven! I warned you it would come to this. You shall come to rue the day that you crossed the Serpent of the Garden.”

Aziraphale flourished his sword, readying himself for an attack.

Crowley took a deep breath.

“Dear to my heart,

Goodly is your beauty, honeysweet,

You have captivated me, let me stand trembling before you.”

Aziraphale almost dropped his sword. He stared with a wide, perplexed expression. It was one that Crowley knew all too well that was usually accompanied by a, “What in the devil are you doing, dear boy?”

Crowley glanced back at Dagon. “Told you I knew his weakness. Angels are all love and kindness. Can’t stand when demons twist their virtues.”

Dagon stared at the angel, letting a sharp smile paint across their face. “So, you were right. All that love and affection from the mouth of a demon, then twisting it into demonic sins, it binds them.”

“Yeah, well, you know. Demons can’t actually fall in love, oh hell, I said it. Anyway, yeah, it changes the meaning or something, takes all that lovey-dovey stuff and makes it evil, lust and sex and such. Angels can’t stand it. Freezes them up.” He was vaguely aware that his cheeks had flushed at quoting such deep, possible desires to his angel, but at the time, when Dagon had asked about Aziraphale’s weakness, it was all he’d been able to come up with. And, while Crowley quoting him romantic poetry would cause Aziraphale to hesitate, it sounded much more plausible than cake or books, which were actually along the lines of his real weaknesses, but he doubted any demon would believe him, no matter how true it may be.

Crowley glanced back at Aziraphale. “Didn’t think I knew your secret, eh, angel? I’ve spent five thousand years following you around, I know you better than you think, Guardian.” Oh for Heaven’s sake, if he didn’t stop blushing, he was going to have to answer some extremely personal questions if they managed to pull this off.

Aziraphale blinked again and shifted his gaze between Dagon and Crowley. “Oh, no? How dare you reveal my most valuable secret?” He sounded more confused than terrified, but it would have to do.

Dagon snarled and thrust a spear into the air. “Charge, my demons. Chant the spells against the holy being and win the favor of your Lord!”

Crowley had never fought so hard not to laugh. From every direction words of longing, yearning desire poured from the lips of demons. Words that Crowley had only thought of late at night, alone, while wishing his angel would chase away his loneliness.

Dagon chanted, starting the advance, “Love is a kind of war, and no assignment for cowards. Where those banners fly, heroes are always on guard.”

Hastur croaked out, “The boy knew nought of love, and, touched with shame, He strove, and blushed, but still the blush became; In rising blushes still fresh beauties rose.”

Crowley stifled his laughter the best he could and met Aziraphale’s eyes. His stare meant that they would talk about this later, probably at length. As the first of the horde neared the angel, Crowley’s fit of giggles subsided as phase two had begun.

The demons closed in around the armored angel, each brandishing either a spear or sword, and Aziraphale smiled, a quite devilish smile, for an angel. Three of the gaggle surged forward, one of them was Crowley.

He locked eyes with Aziraphale and almost prayed that his intent would come across clear to him. That part of the plan was the most delicate of the whole. It required near precognizant powers between the two. Well almost, at least. They had known each other for five thousand years, and now, they were putting it to the test. Crowley flicked his gaze from Aziraphale to the demon to his right.

The angel lunged at Crowley, sword thrusting for his gut. They neared, each weapon ricocheting off bits of armor, and the angel shoved him back, back and to the right, more precisely. Crowley’s sword flew back wildly, severing the head of the attacking demon.

“How dare you,” Crowley hissed, then eyed the discorporating corpse. One down, only about three dozen more to go.

Time passed in a flurry of blood, and oddly, shouts of romantic poetry.

“Your hand in my hand.

My body thrives, my heart exults

At our walking together;

Hearing your voice is pomegranate wine,

I live by hearing it.

Each look with which you look at me

sustains me more than food and drink.”

Crowley had long ago ignored the reddish tint that he knew consumed his cheeks, down to his neck. The embarrassment—despite his constant excuse that demons did not get embarrassed—originated from the fact that over his years on Earth there had been a number of times that he’d had drunken ramblings around certain humans, possibly certain poetic humans who’d listened with rapturous intent and jotted down every word that had spilled from his mouth like flowing wine.

And he had just spent the last few months teaching said words to a few dozen demons, who were speaking Crowley’s deepest darkest desires to Aziraphale on his behalf without even knowing it. He came to the conclusion that Hell really could be on Earth and he was currently its main resident.

Crowley refocused on the fight, spying Hastur and Dagon and a handful of others left. They appeared terrified to Crowley’s approval. If this attack became a success, then perhaps it would be enough to dissuade any further plots against the Principality.

Hope swelled in Crowley’s chest. Maybe, just maybe they could pull this off. However, his triumph was short-lived as Dagon spun, facing Crowley instead of the angel.

“Your tactic is failing us, serpent. You are a traitor! You fed us lies to weaken him, so you could be the one to take him down.”

Crowley froze as the few remaining demons shifted their gaze upon him. Malice seared through their piercing stares. He took a step back. “I did no such thing. Come on, guys, you know me.”

Hastur snarled, slashing his sword at the air in front of him. “You got Ligur discorporated on purpose,” spittle dripped from his shrieking mouth. “I’ll kill you. I’ll. Kill. You!”

Crowley held his sword out as the demons lunged forward. So much for the plan, but… He closed his eyes. At least Aziraphale was safe. It would be worth it for that. A small piece of him chuckled inside. “Thanks,” he whispered, but not to Aziraphale, or the demons. But, to someone he’d known once, someone he knew had a soft spot for the angel after all.

A roaring boom echoed throughout the land, sending Crowley stumbling to his knees.

His ears rang, piercing his skull, and sent him toppling over. He crawled across the grassy floor and blinked at the haze of twilight. Ash swirled in the wind around him, in the same area where a small band of demons had charged for him. Crowley glanced up, miracling his eardrums back to normal, and spied the angel as he knelt next to him.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley expected some sort of reprimand, harsh accusations maybe, but not the tight embrace from angelic arms. He noticed a sudden lack of armor on both of their forms, leaving just his simple robes from before. He wasn’t sure who had sent away the confounded iron cages, but he was grateful, nevertheless.

Aziraphale clung to him in a desperate embrace. His fingers dug into the cloth covering the demon’s back, and his face nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

Crowley tensed at the closeness, unable to register what was happening. He swallowed down words of caution and lifted his arms, pulling the angel against him.

“Oh, Crowley, you idiot. You had me worried sick. I was sure you’d gotten recalled or worse. I couldn’t…I couldn’t contact you, or figure out where you’d gone, or what they were doing to you.” Crowley noted the quiver edging into the angel’s voice.

“Sorry, angel. I wanted to tell you. I tried to think of a way, but it…there was too much risk. Couldn’t get a moment alone.” He forced out a bitter laugh.

Crowley let out a ragged breath, then inhaled, leaning into the soft blond curls tickling his cheek. “I’m glad,” he swallowed, dismissing dangerous longing thoughts. “I’m glad you’re safe, angel.”

Aziraphale leaned back, meeting his eyes in the fading light of dusk. Crowley held his breath as though the act itself could stop time, forever engraving those eyes into his mind. He wanted to be honest, with himself and the angel. He wanted to speak his mind and let the deep recesses of his heart burst forth, enveloping them both in the warm light that had given him hope for so long.

The angel leaned forward. Aziraphale’s lips brushed against his mouth, lingering against his skin, then pressed against him harder as though to draw forth the heat that swallowed his heart.

Crowley couldn’t think, couldn’t react, then he surged forward, caressing the angel’s mouth with his own in a shower of affection. His tongue teased at the rim of Aziraphale’s lips, begging him for more truth, more light with which to bask in and bind away the darkness.

Aziraphale eased back and left Crowley in a panting mess. The demon licked his lips, tasting the angel’s sweetness there and it sent shivers down his spine. Aziraphale gave him a soft smile and rubbed his fingertips along Crowley’s jaw. “I hadn’t given you a proper greeting, yet. I didn’t want to forget before we departed.”

Crowley’s hand reached for Aziraphale’s before he could think. “Don’t go. Not yet.” He cursed himself for the unsteadiness in his voice.

Aziraphale placed his other hand over their clasped grip. “I won’t, my dear. We still have one more thing to do before I go.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “And what is that exactly?” Then, the realization hit him. “Ah, you mean…” He didn’t want to say the word, discorporate.

“Well, that would be the obvious choice. However, I think I know a way we can avoid that and mostly not lie about our,” he seemed to be searching for the right word, “mutual understanding.”

Crowley squeezed his hand, relishing in the warmth from the angel’s grip. “Oh? Well, if you’ve got a plan, then I’m all ears, angel.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, whispering into Crowley’s ear.

The demon listened, then felt a flush creep across his cheeks and scorch down his neck. Crowley coughed, hoping it would clear away the huskiness that he knew would’ve seeped into his voice. “Are you sure? I mean, it could work. But, aren’t you worried they’d find out?”

Aziraphale arched a slender brow. “Are you declining my offer, serpent?”

“No! Nononono. Of course, not.” He met the angel’s questioning stare. “I think it’s a great plan. Love the plan. I just, you know.” He growled out a sigh, feeling his flush deepen. “I don’t want…anything to happen.” He couldn’t say it, not the thing he feared more than the pits of Hell for eternity.

“I won’t,” Aziraphale said with the warmest of smiles. It fell on Crowley like the brightest sun, chasing away his fears, and banishing the darkness that had threatened to consume him.

“How? How do you know?”

Aziraphale leaned forward and rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “That’s my secret for now, but someday I’ll tell you, my dear, someday when it’s safe. When the world is safe for us.”

“Do you think that will ever happen?”

“I do.” Aziraphale pulled back, meeting his eyes. “Someday, but for now, all we have is tonight, and if it keeps you here with me, then I can make the necessary sacrifice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poems mentioned in the chapter are as followed:
> 
> First Poem: A 4,000 years old poem known as, 'Istanbul #2461', as it's unceremoniously called, and is the oldest surviving love poem in the world.
> 
> Second & Third poems: Pieces from Ovid's Love Poetry
> 
> Last Poem: An old Sumerian Love Poem called, "Saam-Plants Here Summon Us".


	7. Epilogue

Crowley snaked his way through the crowds of Hell. Many of the demons he passed glared and shook their heads. He’d only half expected to get this far through the underbelly of the hellish halls, so he counted it as a win so far. He had to admit that the angel’s plan seemed a bit farfetched but was technically truthful, and he hoped that technicality was what would save their collective hides. Crowley had to play it cool. All he had to do was pretend to be a narcissistic smug bugger, and he didn’t think he’d have to work too hard at it.

He flicked out his tongue. No stupid sign was going to stop him from licking whatever the hell he felt like licking.

Crowley reached the door to Dagon’s office and paused. This was it. Everything they had worked for and everything they had sacrificed, it had to be enough. It had to make the difference and convince their higher-ups that they were each loyal to their respective parties.

Dagon would not be happy after losing to Aziraphale, but he had to hope that leaving the angel in such a battered state would be enough to satisfy them.

He entered the room.

Crowley tried to return the devilish sneer to Dagon, but he didn’t have nearly enough teeth. He sat and shifted on the chair. It wobbled from a loose leg and had grime crusted all over it like mange on a scrawny mutt. He would’ve had better luck trying to find a comfortable spot to sit on an actual rabid dog instead of the blasted chair.

“So,” Dagon purred. “You are here to report on your fight with the angel, Aziraphale?”

Crowley nodded and rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, it was an intense fight. Barely managed to escape in one piece.”

“Is that so? Then, why don’t you recount the events of the evening.”

Crowley forced out a smug smile. “Oh, yeah. Got the bastard good. We, uh, fought all night. Nearly got myself discorporated a few times.”

Dagon pointed at his neck. “Is that why your human body is covered in–”

“Bruises. Bruised all over actually. Been too tired to send them away. I’ll probably do it later, after a good nap or something.” He yawned. He really had given it his all; it had been a few centuries since he’d pulled an all-nighter like that.

Dagon glared daggers at him. “It seems very unlikely that you’d be the sole demon to survive the blast from that insufferable angel.”

“Well I told you, didn’t I? I’m the only one who knows him well enough to evade his attacks. I tried to help you lot, but you all thought I’d gone mad and fed you some bloody lies. We could’ve had him if you’d just listened to me.”

Dagon stood from the desk and paced behind it, weaving back and forth like an irritated eel, eager to snap its jaws. “So, this battle, did you at least injure him? Stab him a few times perhaps?”

“Of course. I, um, actually landed the first blow. Had to disintegrate his armor first, but after that, it was,” his cheeks flushed pink, and he coughed, “it was easy to take him down. I got in there and…got him good?” He glanced at Dagon through his shades. It wasn’t really a lie, technically.

“So, you did, in fact, try to discorporate him?”

Crowley scoffed. “Of course, I did! I fu-fought him all night. I tried my damnedest to, uh, top him, but…”

“But?”

Crowley hung his head. “He got me in the end. I couldn’t take him.”

“Even after our combined forces, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate still had enough angelic force left to defend against your attacks?”

“Surprised me, too, really. I thought it’d be easy to get the jump on him. But, turns out he still had enough fight in him to really power through, I mean, I worked him over hard, pulled out all of my moves, then in the end, he just flipped me, just like that, and the damn angel didn’t even give me a chance to get back on top.”

“I bet you didn’t even draw blood from him, you incompetent snake.”

“I did too! I, uh, I bit him a few times. I mean I _can_ produce poison and all. Thought it couldn’t hurt, well too much.”

Dagon sneered with the renewed vigor at the prospect of pain. “Did it hurt? Did you make him scream?”

“I can, in fact, honestly say that I made him scream a few times, or cry out at least. Got him to pray to Her a few times too, though that could’ve been really awkward if She’d shown up.” He grimaced not at all wanting to think about that.

“Well, I suppose that’s something. I can’t say I’m pleased with the result, but maybe it will be something if we didn’t, in fact, lose our entire force. How did you escape anyway?”

“Oh, you know.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I just whittled him down, I guess. Took all night, but he seemed pretty tired by daybreak. I knew I wasn’t in any shape to fight after all that, so I just made a break for it, lived to, um, fight another day and all.”

“Coward,” Dagon sneered, but sat in the desk chair once more, eyeing the paperwork. “But a clever coward at least.”

When Dagon didn’t offer up any more information, Crowley asked, “So, what’s the plan, then? Are we regrouping, or…?”

“No, the bet’s been canceled. The Dark Council didn’t want to face any more humiliation. If we lost any more demons to that damn angel, it’d hurt our morale. It seems like you’re on your own again against him.”

“Ah, well. Can’t win them all, can we?” He stood and stretched. Crowley had a feeling he was going to have enjoyable dreams for the next while. Hopefully, he’d have the chance to reclaim his dignity at some point. But, he didn’t think they’d get the excuse to test that any time soon.

**Meanwhile:**

“There’s our star Principality,” Gabriel beamed, gesturing at Aziraphale. “I heard someone eradicated a quite impressive number of demons.”

“Oh, it was nothing.” Aziraphale held a plastered smile on his face and adjusted his robes. He rubbed at his chin; he’d missed the soft edges of his face. The beard had kept tickling his nose and making it dreadfully difficult to concentrate.

“I heard you had to fight the demon Crowley,” Michael interjected.

Aziraphale glanced at the angels in turn: Michael, Sandalphon, and Gabriel. None of them seemed anything other than heavenly in their appearance. None of them mouthed the words’ malicious traitor’ or such, so all he could do was dance on the edge of his technicalities and hope it didn’t end with him Falling off, one way or another. “Yes,” he cleared his throat. “I did, in fact,_ fight_ the demon, Crowley. He is wily and tried to use many tricks to, um, well, subdue me, but I got him in the end.”

Sandalphon leaned forward, scrunching his nose in disgust. “It looks like he bit you.”

“Oh, yes, that.” Aziraphale rubbed at a spot on his neck. “As I said, he tried to use many tactics to best me, but in the end, I was able to come out on top.”

“So, you discorporated him,” Michael asked, raising a slender brow.

“Well, not exactly. I did try, a few times, I mean, I really gave it my all, but his, well,” he took a deep breath. Aziraphale had not taken into account how much he’d want to discorporate just to end their conversation. “He has more stamina than I expected. We were at it all night. By the time the sun rose, we had to part ways or explain to a battalion of humans why two immortal beings were fucking—fighting, fighting under an apple tree on a hill in broad daylight. It would’ve been terribly awkward.”

The angels nodded as though they understood the predicament and hadn’t at all, caught on to Aziraphale’s delight. It seemed a miracle to be able to keep his face as neutral as possible for as long as he did.

“Terrible shame you couldn’t have added him to the list, but I hear the demons have dissolved the challenge. So, good news, it’s just you and the Serpent again. I bet you’ll take him out next time. And, more good news, we have this for you.” A box appeared in Gabriel’s open palm. “A token of our appreciation of your hard work against the forces of Hell.”

Aziraphale accepted the box and opened it. His eyes widen at the sight of a gleaming gold medal nestled in the velvet cushion of the container. He pursed his lips, then glanced at Gabriel. “So, this is because of…”

“Well, your success against the demons, of course. And a reminder, that should you have the opportunity, you should try and see if you can’t add that snake of a demon to the list of the discorporated. Who knows, maybe you’ll have a chance to fight again?” Gabriel patted his shoulder.

“Yes, I do hope we get a go at that again.” Aziraphale tucked the box under his arm. The last thing he’d expected in his entire existence was to earn a medal for topping a demon. Then, again, no other angel had ever done it, so maybe it was appropriate in some ineffable way. Crowley was going to laugh himself silly when he heard about it.

**The Night Before the Ritz:**

Crowley wandered into his kitchen. He had a temperature-controlled wine fridge installed not long ago, and it seemed as good of a time as any to test it. He grabbed two bottles he was sure Aziraphale would like. Half of him was still reeling from the angel agreeing to stay the night. They hadn’t slept near each other since–

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called from the other room.

“Yes, angel?”

“What is this, um, art?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. He didn’t have much artwork in his flat, but most of his pieces should’ve been recognizable, especially to the angel. After grabbing the glasses from the shelf, Crowley juggled the two bottles and cups into the sort of dining room. It did have a table at least and his chair, well, more of a throne really. One of his past keepsakes.

Aziraphale stood with his hands clasped behind him. His gaze had fixed upon a small statue of a winged angel and a demon. The artwork was supposed to symbolize the fight against good and evil, however…

Crowley let a smug grin paint his face as he poured the wine. “You don’t like it?”

“I, uh, well,” Aziraphale seemed to have trouble deciding which word to use. “It–”

Crowley couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Brings back memories?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks up to the tips of his ears flushed with sudden embarrassment. “Is that _why_ you have it?”

Crowley set down the bottle and ambled behind him. “Well, I mean, you got a medal and all. I worked hard that night, too.”

Aziraphale turned to face him with a coy smile. “Actually, I remember you at my mercy far more than the reverse, my dear.”

It was Crowley’s turn to flush, then stammer, “D-Don’t you dare. I did my fair share that night. You even called out to Her, I did so bloody good. You can’t say that was nothing.”

Aziraphale eyed him with his seemingly innocent eyes. His hands found their way to Crowley’s metallic tie. He traced his fingers along it as though adjusting it, but Crowley knew better. Aziraphale gave a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, my dear. That was an awfully long time ago. I can’t seem to recall you doing much more than calling my name with a…rapturous intent.” His fingertips left the tie and trailed along the demon’s jaw.

“Oh, you are a bastard. A bloody bastard of an angel.”

Aziraphale leaned up, closing the distance between them. “I think that’s one of the things you like most about me, my dearest.” His lips pressed onto Crowley’s mouth with a soft and gliding touch at first, but then, as his lips parted, they both knew the wine would be forgotten until the early hours of the morning.


End file.
